Survival Skills https://griefsite.wordpress.com
Sun, 25 Feb 2018 20:15:25 +0000enhourly1http://wordpress.com/https://secure.gravatar.com/blavatar/df1134b15ab038f8843b7a5170f43e55?s=96&d=https%3A%2F%2Fs2.wp.com%2Fi%2Fbuttonw-com.pngSurvival Skills https://griefsite.wordpress.com
Akhilandeshwarihttps://griefsite.wordpress.com/2018/02/20/akhilandeshwari/
https://griefsite.wordpress.com/2018/02/20/akhilandeshwari/#commentsWed, 21 Feb 2018 04:56:51 +0000http://griefsite.wordpress.com/?p=2945Continue reading →]]>Akhilandeshwari is a South Asian Goddess who is known as ‘She Who Is Never Not Broken’. Akhilan-“ means, “never-not-broken” and “deshvari” is a Sanskrit term for goddess.

As human beings, we are broken over and over during our lifetime. Broken from grief, from heartbreak, from loss and traumas, both physical and mental.

A question I am frequently asked is how I have endured and survived some of the times I have been broken- both literally and figuratively.

The truth is that it was at those times in my life when I was most broken that I have made deep acquaintance with my pain and suffering. Mostly in silence, frequently with hot tears running down my face, but always with an open soul and inquisitive mind.

I learned at a very young age that I was going to be the only one to save myself.

For many years, I ran and ran and then ran some more. I managed to keep my life busy and full. I kept the lessons and the learning and the inevitable time for reflection at bay until I was forced to face all the broken pieces of me.

As a dear friend calls it- the time was coming for excavation, a time that would be forced upon me for digging deep inside.

To remember. To reflect. To open doors leading to places I had been trying to avoid going for years. And I had a whole lot of places I had been avoiding.

Emotional pain was always something to be avoided at all costs, and if I had to hurt in that way, it was best to stuff it deep and forget it if I could.

Maybe i could find someone else in even more pain than me and try to help them. That sounded better than having to look at my own. Find someone even more broken than myself and try to love them back together again. I have had whole relationships that started from that very criteria.

Distractions. Deflections. Denial.

I am indeed like Akhilandeshvari, she of “never not broken”.

I like to think that I finally stopped running and invited my pain in for tea.

But it didn’t really work that way.

One day a few months following the death of my brother, I found myself crying and quite honestly couldn’t stop. I sat on my couch, totally alone, and for the first time in my life, I allowed it all to wash over me. All that sticky, hot, aching pain.

I invited it in and let it wash all over me. I sat with it, my home growing dark as the hours slipped by around me.

The losses, the abuses, the neglect, the regrets – everything I had kept behind those doors for years. I felt at times like I was psychically shattering. My heart ached and my lungs felt full. Every part of my body was like a sponge, taking in more and more pain as every one of those doors opened, one at a time.

Look at it. Deal with it. Look at your part in this.

Call it a Come to Jesus moment, or a transformation, or even a nervous breakdown if you will. All I know is that once I allowed it to happen and really spent the time picking through all the broken pieces, I began to see the prisms of light within me and within my broken pieces.

I believe that people are drawn to me because of my brokenness.

I think they must sense that if they share their own stories of suffering with me, I will listen and be with them in their pain.

I am not fearful of pain anymore, mine or anyone else’s.

Pain has provided me with the lessons I most needed to learn and has been the best tool for growth I could ever ask for.

]]>https://griefsite.wordpress.com/2018/02/20/akhilandeshwari/feed/168ac8f31a185a4e66c52f3e04c805e306shannontinaac80f4cac4c3e083463553b8bcf733f91977https://griefsite.wordpress.com/2018/02/18/1977/
https://griefsite.wordpress.com/2018/02/18/1977/#commentsSun, 18 Feb 2018 23:40:06 +0000http://griefsite.wordpress.com/?p=2933Continue reading →]]>We had been parked out at the camping spot outside our town for almost a week with our Dad in charge. The summers usually consisted of them taking turns with their holidays, her one week, him the next, back and forth like that, usually culminating in 2 weeks all of us together at the end. This plan was likely made with the idea of constant supervision during the summer break, and also with the intent to minimize the need to pay someone to watch us.

We always looked forward to the weeks with Dad, as he never bothered or nagged us, and by 4 in the afternoons, it was doubtful he even remembered he had 2 kids out rambling through the wooded areas and down by the river. By that time, he was well into his cups, and either snoozing off his uninterrupted day-drunk, or listening to his Johnny Cash 8-tracks and hazily formulating supper ideas. He was never the kind of drunk who forgot to eat, or skipped eating in order to leave more room for the rye.

All the successful professional alcoholics I have known during my life have always taken the time to eat. In their minds, it keeps them within the “normal” zone on the barometer of boozology. Dinner may be rock hard from warming in the oven, or burnt to a crisp from idling in the frying pan too long, or even served at 11 at night, but they made dinner, didn’t they?

My mother, the warden, usually kept a pretty close eye on my pops, for good reason. We loved him to death, but his irresponsibility scared her to death. He never said no to us, but always deferred to my mother if she was present, and just wanted us to be happy and free. One of my jobs was to do dishes and clean the kitchen up after dinner every night, but if it ran late, my friends would already be ringing the doorbell wanting me to go out with them. My dad would sneak down to the kitchen, and grab the towel or broom from me and whisper “go- go- be with your friends, I can finish this up for you-shhhhh.”

I am sure, looking back, that he had been doing that with me since I was a very young child. He was always so affectionate with me, always pinching my cheeks softly between his second and third fingers. Always brushing my hair out of my eyes when I was reading, and he would notice it falling forward. Always such affection and adoration from my Dad. It made me love him so much and want to “cover” for him with my mom.

I’m pretty sure that is how it started- my covering up for him and his negligence with us. My doing my damnedest to make sure anything she left for him to complete, was completed by me if he was too drunk to do it. Everything from subbing in and taking my brother for his haircuts, while my dad drank at the bar, to stealing his own wallet from him to ensure he came home with the amount of money for bills she had asked him to bring home. He was always thankful for my interventions and assistance, and loved me even more, if that was possible.

He had a pretty good system going. My mother told him what to do, or what she expected from him and he let me take care of all the pesky details and also the worry.

More time to drink.

The only phone out at the campground was by the little store- a payphone.

People didn’t need to be in constant contact back then, so it wasn’t strange to go the entire 5 day work week without talking to my mother. She knew where we were and unless we called her from the payphone, everything was assumed to be fine.

I was standing in line for a slushie with some of my friends when the man who ran the joint said to me ” Call home, kid.” I was confused, as i didn’t know he even knew who I was. I asked him if he was sure he had the right person, and he nodded, his smoke hanging off his bottom lip, and said ” yup- your mom described you perfectly, right down to the bathing suit. Call home.”

I left the line and walked toward the payphone, already feeling a twisting in my gut. I pulled a dime out of my sneaker (where all smart summer kids kept their change), and dropped it into the slot of the phone.

My mom answered immediately and told me my Uncle George had died and we needed to get home immediately.

Now, this is where this story takes a humorous turn of sorts, in spite of the spectre of death hanging over it.

I had two Uncle Georges.

One was married to my mom’s sister, and was my favourite man in the world after my Dad.

The second was married to my Mom’s best friend, my godmother.

I didn’t think to ask which one died before my mother hung up the phone.

So, off I ran to the tent trailer to tell my Dad that we had orders to get home as fast as we could, as George had died and my mom wanted us home.

As I approached the camp spot, I could hear the train whistles and Johnny Cash – Orange Blossom Special, and knew my mission might take a bad turn. The louder the music, the drunker he likely was – of that you could always be certain. I was still 4 camp spots away when i heard the music, and felt even sicker….slowed my running to a walk. I tried to calculate how many hours he had been left alone by us. It was about 4:30, and we had taken off to go swimming around 9. Even allowing him an hour for coffee, he had likely been smashing it hard since 10 A.M, secure in the thought that it was going to just be one more lazy, hazy day camping, and we wouldn’t need anything until at least 6 or 7, as we packed bologna sandwiches with us when we left.

I saw him sitting in his lawn chair, with his head slightly forward, nodding along a bit to his music. As I approached him from the trees, I could literally see him try to focus his eyes on who was walking toward him. His eyes were bleary-looking and he blinked a couple times before he smiled at me and said ” Hey shishhhh– howshh yer day going?”

I told him we had to go home and it was like it didn’t even register. Nothing.

Once again, I explained that “George” had died and that we were told to get home as soon as possible, and he looked up at me with a child’s eyes, and shook his head a bit, muttering, “can’t, can’t drive”.

We were 20 miles from home, with direct orders from the warden to get our asses home, there’s been a death, and he was sitting there, like an errant toddler, shaking his head back and forth and telling me “can’t.”

It took me about 4 minutes to assess what would be our worst case scenario – my little brother and myself dying in the car on the way home cus he was seeing double already, or dealing with my mother, who gave us a direct order.

I chose death for all of us, and quickly rounded up my brother, packed anything outside the trailer into the trailer, turned off Johnny, and threw water on the campfire he had been half-assed playing with all day. All while he sat in the lawn chair blearily watching me. He almost looked like he was pouting- sulky. Like I was also pouring water all over HIS party by making us leave.

I got my brother to help me drag our father to the station wagon on his wobbly legs and stuff him inside the driver’s door. I remember my brother giggling during all of it. He thought it was like a game- an adventure- something that plopped itself into a boring summer day that ran into all the other boring endless summer days. The idea of his sister “bossing” his dad around seemed to really amuse him a lot, in retrospect.

I got myself and my brother into the car and we sat there. Sat there for what seemed like years, waiting for him to focus- to come back to his senses- to open his eyes to the fact that he was behind the wheel of his car, us waiting for him to turn the key in the ignition.

He didn’t move a muscle, just slumped back in his seat and started snoring quietly- he was sleeping. Passed out. Blotto.

I suddenly felt more anger than I had ever felt in my life up to that point. My chest felt like it was going to explode and blow my heart right out the windshield and into the trees beyond the car. My head hurt, my chest hurt, I was seeing stars.

I jerked my door open and ran around to his side of the car and opened the door. Then I started hitting him in the shoulders and chest and yelling at him to wake up. He jerked awake and looked so startled and then sad that his little angel, his little girl, his little co-conspirator was striking him and yelling at him.

I told him to shove over to the passenger side of the car and then grabbed my mom’s little pillow she kept in the back for when she was driving and put it on the driver’s seat.

I slid in and shut the door. With my brother’s help, I got the car started and adjusted the rear view mirror. He talked me through finding the lever to pull the seat forward and even helped by pushing with his little legs from the back seat. It was a good thing he had paid attention to how the car worked, as I never had. I must have been secure in my belief that there would always be an adult around to take care of that sort of thing.

In that way, my brother was much more of a survivor than I was. His eyes and ears never missed a thing, whereas I was always doing my best to not see or hear most of what was going on around me.

As I attempted backing out of the narrow parking spot, I nicked a corner of a tree. I remember twisting the wheel back and forth, as I didn’t understand how to move it to reverse in a different direction, so it took us some time to get the nose pointed in the direction we needed to be in. In fairness to my young self, I highly doubt after driving almost 40 years, I could reverse that big old countrysquire station wagon out of that narrow spot!

As we drove along the bumpy gravel road towards the exit, I remember panicking a bit about the directions, as I never paid any attention in a car. I had my nose in an Archie comic, waiting for the car to stop at my destination. Luckily, my brother knew where we needed to turn and how to get us out of the country and back to town.

I remember driving us, my dad snoring beside me in the passenger seat, my brother leaning into the front seat in the center, telling me when to turn left or right, when to slow down, where the “coppers” hid in the trees to nail the speeders. I told myself that if I saw any “coppers” I would just run us all to our deaths straight into the nearest tree, as that would be better than them showing up to embarrass my mother at our home. (The neighbours!!!!!)

Someone was watching over my brother and I that day and it most certainly was not either of our parents. After what seemed like forever, I turned that big old car into our driveway at home, took the keys out and threw them in my father’s lap.

My brother and I went into the house and met our mother in the kitchen, where she was waiting. I remember falling into her arms and sobbing. She believed it was from grief, I suppose. She never asked me why, just held me while I cried and shook.

She asked where my dad was, and I told her he was still in the car, but that was all. I had already sworn my brother to secrecy on the way home, promising him all the money I had saved and also any candy I had stashed in my bedroom.

I don’t know if she ever went out to the car and figured out what had happened.

More likely, he just woke up and came inside and nothing came of it, as there was a funeral to attend, and people coming and going, which gave her no time to question any of it, and he certainly wasn’t going to open that Pandora’s box on his own.

I remember when I finally found out which George it was that died, I felt very guilty as there was a sense of relief it wasn’t my favourite Uncle George. The guilt came because the George who DID die, had a daughter the same age as me, and was a drinker like my dad.

I remember feeling so confused about my anger towards my dad, all mixed up with a sudden fear that HE could die, too. It all became very real to me that people can die any day, from any number of ways.

Kids could wake up on a lazy summer Tuesday with a dad and by the time they went to bed at night, he could be gone.

Cold and dead and maybe the last thing his daughter said to him was “I hate you!”

Or perhaps she really let loose and uttered her first curse word directly at him…something like ” you fucking DRUNK, give me those fucking keys, RIGHT NOW!”

It could happen. ( It wouldn’t for a few more years, but not many.)

So better to just shove it deep down inside and forget about it.

I was 12.

]]>https://griefsite.wordpress.com/2018/02/18/1977/feed/2shannontinaMy Voicehttps://griefsite.wordpress.com/2018/02/15/my-voice-2/
https://griefsite.wordpress.com/2018/02/15/my-voice-2/#commentsThu, 15 Feb 2018 21:40:10 +0000http://griefsite.wordpress.com/?p=2902Continue reading →]]>I have been noticing that by the time most women find their voices and their truths, they have basically been deemed irrelevant and uninteresting by virtue of their age.

I have seen it happening at work with younger colleagues but mostly in my personal and social life (such that it is!).

I was honestly gutted when 45 won that election last year. Gutted. Slayed. Bewildered & very, very saddened.

It hit me like a ton of bricks that the patriarchy is alive and well and still running the show. I was not a huge fan of Hilary Clinton. I can admit that. I admired her years of public service and the things she had accomplished in her career, but also side-eyed some of her statements and interests. I was dragged into lively debates with my kids on the whole Bernie vs Hilary thing. Ad nauseum.

I live in a so-called Socialist Paradise – Canada, so I certainly have reaped the benefits of a robust social safety net and access to health care, regardless of what the balance is in my bank account.

So, I get why some believed Bernie was the one to go with, even though I am one of those voters that votes in the safest alternative. She would have been that.

I just cannot get past the fact that in my heart, I believe that she lost because she is a woman– and an older woman, at that. One to mock for her sensible shoes and her tidy, but boring pantsuits. The way the media slammed her in regards to her appearance and her energy levels ( even though both 45 and the Bernster were older than her!) was the finishing touch on my forming my belief.

When I was younger, I was taken aback at the loud, feisty females who proudly proclaimed themselves feminists. I was surrounded by men that viewed feminists as “bitter hens who couldn’t find a man”. “Man-haters”. “Bra-burners.”

In my mind there wasn’t a need to be so loud and confrontational about things. I was a babe in the woods, still nodding my head and rarely speaking up or joining conversations that the men were having. Still wrapped in my belief that some man somewhere was always going to be handy to make sure my needs were taken care of.

My ex-husband used to like to tell people that my mother was a “man-hater”. This seemed to occur following any statement that he made that she might have her own opinion about. She was 50-something when this started occurring regularly.

He would laugh and try to shut her down by proclaiming ” oh, you just hate men- you are bitter is all.”

She was most certainly not a man hater.

She had just reached an age where all the years of listening to some blow hard pontificate on every subject under the sun had caught up with her, I think. She was full up with having things man-splained to her. My Mother, who read an average of 4 books per week and worked full time; who never missed the news or reading the paper daily. She sat for years and listened to men decide and tell and direct and make decisions about her life.

Men who for the most part who had never seen the inside of a grade 8 textbook in their lives.

Then I guess somewhere around her 50th year, she blew. And looking back at it all now, it was really quite glorious.

So, what I haven’t done due to holding back is become much more vocal about my opinion on things, out of a fear of being labeled a “man-hater”.

I actually have an opinion on a lot of things.

A variety of things.

The glass ceiling at work.

Equal pay.

Politics.

The current reconciliation program with our Indigenous Canadians and the racism I see daily towards our original land owners.

I want to tell my son that it isn’t a “cute” look when he tells people he just throws his money at his partner, and lets her worry about the bills and deadlines and groceries and every other damn thing he thinks is beneath him spending his valuable time on.

I want to tell the man I report to at work that just because he acts like one of my children, he wont be treated with near as much patience and that I am not the “fixer” just by virtue of having the vagina.

I might even cut my long hair off just to spite the last asshole I was in a relationship with. Years of dealing with all this hair just because he found it more visually appealing to him….

Something we all strive for, I guess, since we first looked at someone and hoped we were not like them at all. Our core uniqueness and character comes from the fact that we all see and experience life through different eyes and distinct perspectives due to experiencing particular events in our lifetimes.

I am aware that I think very differently than others think and also respond to events in ways that others cannot understand. By now, I am long used to the reactions I get, so don’t tend to let them bother me in the least. I am pretty much an open book to those I invite into my inner circle. That circle is actually pretty small, the older I get, as not everyone can be trusted with knowing the real me, in all my uncensored glory, and with the tact sometimes of a drunken 3 year old.

I am fortunate where I work, as most times when I comment in inappropriate ways, they think I am joking around. That works great for me, as I don’t have to pretend and can basically say what is on my mind at any given moment in time. Of course, I am very aware of my audience at all times, so behave accordingly when I absolutely have to.

Examples:

Co-Worker standing at my desk waiting for me to acknowledge their presence.

Me: “Can you be helped?”

2. Co-Worker complaining about flight delay during departure for her 20 day Mediterranean vacation. Launches into long, whiny, entitled rant on losing 2 hours of her holiday time sitting in the warm heated airport waiting for “her” plane to be de-iced twice prior to boarding.

My reaction:

So, in a nutshell- very low tolerance for bullshit and pity-parties, and some pretty intense black humour.

I could blame the humour on the Irish in me, but really think it is due to the life I have lived and even more so the things I have seen.

I’ve seen a lot- both in my personal life and in my career, back when I worked Hospice.

My experiences make me unique and quite the individual- some have even suggested I can be “a handful” at times.

I wouldn’t have it any other way!

]]>https://griefsite.wordpress.com/2018/02/15/the-og-shannon/feed/3shannontinahangoverChillin’ like a Villainhttps://griefsite.wordpress.com/2018/02/05/chillin-like-a-villain/
https://griefsite.wordpress.com/2018/02/05/chillin-like-a-villain/#commentsTue, 06 Feb 2018 00:34:19 +0000http://griefsite.wordpress.com/?p=2896Continue reading →]]>Calen asked us this week to write about what relaxes us and what brings us pleasure.

The mingling of the words relaxation and pleasure together immediately made me think of music, which has always been a part of me for my entire life, like a my limbs or an essential organ.

I have never lived a day without music of some sort, playing somewhere…either outside or inside of me.

I can completely zone out to time and space with the right song playing, and that has been such an incredible blessing to me so many times in my life.

For a period of time following the deaths of loved ones, I tried to turn the external music off, as I found it made me too emotional and I lacked the control to keep that emotionalism at bay. I needed to work and live and coexist in environments where people might react if I suddenly started snotting and wailing it up in public.

(Pro-Tip: Crying children get sympathy – crying menopausal women get straightjackets or Prozac.)

There was also the tiniest part of me that felt there must be silence in my life, so that I could properly grieve in an appropriate, somber manner- giving that sacred time the silence and my undivided attention. Eliminating something that gave me pleasure, as there should be no pleasure while grieving.

So off went the radios for a few months.

But then a strange thing happened- my internal music never stopped on command.

I had no control over the music playing in my head or heart, and if there was no external music playing, the melodies continued playing inside me. I would hear a snippet of a conversation and my brain would automatically find the most appropriate song lyric I knew and I would be mumbling it to myself or would suddenly hear the melody playing in my head. I would have those ear worms for hours at a time, almost like it was a punishment for not allowing the presence of music into a life that so craved it.

So, music is my relaxation and my pleasure but also my pain and sometimes a burden to bear.

Even when tears are falling down my face from the memories the music extracts frome me, at the same time it provides such cathartic outcomes, that I cannot deny myself the pleasure of it.

Things had been getting worse for 3 weeks. She had not been sleeping well at night, because after the darkness fell, there were always two scenarios. Either he was not home, but would surely be back later- pounding on the glass patio door, roaring to be let in. Threatening to smash his way through the door if she didn’t open it and allow him entry. Or on worse days, he was there at home, trashed by the time she arrived after work and fueled up to fight.

One time she arrived after a 12 hour day of presentations and meetings to find the 48 inch flat screen torn right off the wall, an ugly mess of metal and torn drywall where it had resided for years. Plants she had babied like children laying torn in pieces in piles of dirt all over the white living room carpet.

Glass from picture frames destroyed beyond repair, laying in the dirt….her children’s faces looking up at her from under the scattered leaves and dirt. Delicate glass ornaments of her dead Mother’s that she had carried from her childhood home wrapped oh so carefully in oven mitts to keep them safe….crushed under the weight of his dirty boots.

The fact that the television was nowhere to be seen could only mean that at some point during the day a coke run had occurred. She could smell the alcohol the minute she walked through the door and felt her stomach spasm and grip inwards, almost like it was trying to hide.

She wished she could hide, but there was nowhere to go.

No one to help anymore. All the helpers gone like the wind.

Dead – like she stayed awake at night thinking she might be soon. Laying there in the dark, listening… analyzing how and when it could possibly happen; realizing that there were things to be endured during life that were worse than death- things that made you think that death and the release would be nothing compared to the chaos and constant gut-wrenching fear you had dealt with.

She called 911 twice during the month of escalation. Escalation was their word- the ones who took the notes in their little spiral bound notebooks.

But that was after.

Both times they came and put him in the police car and the older cop looked at her with a smirk and told her they couldn’t arrest him, as he had broken no laws. A man is allowed to drink in his own home and did she provoke him in any way?

“You seem pretty hysterical in my eyes, lady.”

Asking why she didn’t just go to bed and let him sleep it off.

“That’s what usually happens” they said.

Twice they drove him down town and let him out of the car and both times when she woke in the morning, he was sitting on the couch when she came down the stairs. She could smell the alcohol from the 4th step from the bottom…could feel everything recoiling…feel every nerve ending preparing for what would come.

Would it be today? Was this the day that it would all come to an end? Any end? Good or bad? Anything to stop existing in this hell of her own making?

“You chose him, lady.”

(Oh my GOD, do you think he was like this when I met him? This monster who makes every day an unpredictable tightrope of survival has the same hands that used to brush my hair so gently and who I would catch looking at me with eyes full of love.)

She stayed at home from work that Tuesday, as she had fallen down the stairs the night before, running in the dark, with the phone in her hand. She muttered to herself that it felt like she may have cracked her tail-bone, although she already knew it when she hit the third stair from the second level, banging down the rest of them on her ass. Every one to the bottom and the hardwood floor met her as she landed.

She hobbled around all day in pain but wouldn’t go to the hospital, as she didn’t want to leave him alone in the house to ruin anymore of her things.

Her memories.

Why did she care more about her things than herself?

She cleaned from the night before as he slept, snoring on the couch…trying to be quiet, trying to make right the mess all around her. Everywhere she looked- glass, plants, dirt…so much dirt.

The smell of dirt and beer and vomit like a fog that would never go away.

He woke at 5:03 P.M.

She remembered the time exactly later that night when the questions came. She heard the sound of the tab being sprung on the beer can from the kitchen and looked at the clock- her instinct was to look at the clock for some reason. She finished with the garbage bags and then tried to quietly get up the stairs to the bedroom at the sound of the second can popping. Her back and legs were not working well-angry and rebelling at her from her clumsy fall down the stairs the night before.

At the fifth step, she felt his hands in her hair and was yanked backwards down the stairs, falling against him and to the floor at the bottom. Wrestling with him, scrabbling on all fours in her old flannel pajamas, trying to get a grip with her bare feet to get up and away. Moving as fast as she could with her poor, poor back screaming at her. Going for her purse- her keys- then feeling his fist slam into her cheek, knocking her sideways, her ears ringing and her ear throbbing heat.

Whimpering but quiet- knowing things would escalate if she got loud with him. Pulling her purse back to her chest, while he pummeled her head and face and shoulders and breasts with his fists.

Feeling his spittle striking her face as he swung……barely registering the words he was screaming at her; the vile curses he spat out at her, the ENORMITY of his rage.

She grew winded from the wrestling required to block her face and chest and dropped to her knees, trying to catch her breath, all the fighting- she was not young anymore, and already so broken from so many other things and events and she smoked and didn’t have enough air to keep defending herself.

She heard him moving toward the kitchen, his boots- from the carpeted living room to the kitchen tile. Heard him slamming drawers open and closed- searching for something.

She made it to her feet and had just turned towards the hallway; thinking she could make it out the front door if her back held out; gripping her purse tightly to her body. The purse which held her keys and her escape.

Before she could take a step, he was back and all over her again, swinging, and hitting her in her face, her head, her neck- punching her with his fists in her chest and arms-trying to pull her purse away from her, her keys, her escape. She barely registered the feeling of wetness on her face, the feeling heat running down her arms- the stinging pain in her head.

She dropped again to her knees in front of him and then looked up . Looked at him fully, gripping a pair of scissors in his fist. Her vision was wavering and she was having difficulty focusing on him. There was a soul-slamming realization that this was likely her last day on earth and suddenly she felt all the air and fight whooshing out of her, like a deflated balloon.

He was swinging down at her, randomly now, like a robot. His dead eyes- nothing behind them at all. No humanity left inside the body that kept hitting.

A thought tickled her brain- the thought of her youngest son. How he had pulled away in the last few months and how they had barely spoken to each other. Somewhere inside of her a small voice said ” if you die today like this, he will live the rest of his life regretting the time lost leading up to your death. He willneverget over this…it will shape every day of his life until his own death.”

She swung her arm out towards him, her purse swinging and hit him right where her father had taught her all those years ago to swing/kick at if a boy was getting “fresh”.

He staggered a bit – off-balance and to the right- just enough to allow her to get to her feet and to keep swinging that heavy purse at him. At his head, at his hand holding the scissors, covered in her blood. She kept swinging and swinging and felt her own rage rising in her like a thick hot bile. Her arms were soon covered in scratches from those scissors, but she didn’t even notice. She pushed at him and pushed until she had a clear path to the door and she ran.

Ran like she was 15 again and competing in track and field day.

Ran like she hadn’t smoked cigarettes for decades.

Ran like she wasn’t bleeding and broken and exhausted and depleted.

The clumsy girl who could trip on a gum wrapper high hurdled the low fence in the front like she was competing in the Olympics and jumped into her truck and locked her doors JUST as he came out of the house towards her.

She tore out of her parking spot in reverse and was shifting into drive when she heard a loud thump from behind her and saw in her rear view mirror that he was in the bed of the truck and moving towards her in the cab.

He had taken the time to grab a knife on his way out of the door after her and it was catching the sunlight and making kaleidoscopes of colour in her rear view mirror.

She hit the gas hard and heard him slam back into the bed, but as soon as she slowed down, he was back up on his feet again and moving toward the sliding window behind her in the cab.

That was the moment that she stopped thinking and moved into autopilot, not stopping or slowing at all anymore, oblivious to pedestrians, or traffic, or strollers, or lights or signs. She flew across 4 lanes of traffic, hitting her gas and then her brakes, like an automaton….no longer looking back to check his position in the bed of the truck- looking forward only, and grinning a bit. GRINNING- every time she heard that loud slamming in the back of the truck- knowing he had been thrown back on his ass again and wasn’t any closer to getting to that sliding window inches from her back and neck.

She didn’t look back for 10 minutes that seemed like 10 days- just kept driving- speeding up and slamming on the brakes- as she drove herself to the nearest neighbourhood police detachment.

To this day, she is unaware of the exact moment or location that she eventually threw him out of the back of the truck with her erratic driving.

She sat in her truck in the parking lot of the strip mall, waiting for the police to arrive and smoking a cigarette. She looked around her at the people coming and going, buying KFC or Pizza Hut to take home to feed their families.

She held a forgotten sweater she found inside her truck to her head to slow the blood from where the scissors went into the top of her head.

She didn’t think about him at all.

Not once.

She pushed all of her thoughts and all of her feelings to a safe place for a later review and slammed that door shut.

She lit another cigarette and enjoyed the newfound stillness inside of her.

]]>https://griefsite.wordpress.com/2018/01/26/thatll-be-the-day/feed/9shannontinaBalance & The Art of Letting Gohttps://griefsite.wordpress.com/2018/01/17/balance-the-art-of-letting-go/
https://griefsite.wordpress.com/2018/01/17/balance-the-art-of-letting-go/#commentsWed, 17 Jan 2018 23:47:12 +0000http://griefsite.wordpress.com/?p=2882Continue reading →]]>Balance to me, at this point in my life, is about the art of letting go.

For the first 50 years of my existence, I was gathering and taking and acquiring all manner of things: money, homes, friends, partners, loyalty, favours, safety, peace and most of all – love.

Around the time of my 50th, I had an epiphany of sorts, and the thought popped into my head that I really didn’t know shit about anything. Who was I to be counseling loved ones and friends when they came to me for advice? How could I possibly give anyone direction when I had always blown around like a leaf in the wind most of my life, accepting and constantly adjusting my sails, according to the ferocity of the storms and tragedies? I had done a fair bit of living, so possibly I was helpful in that I could relate to many things, and provide tips or life “hacks”. But in truth, I did most of them a disservice even attempting to direct them on the right path.

In the last few years, it has been all about letting it all go for me.

I have let go of trying to control anyone I love and have become quieter and more attentive to their physical cues. Everyone knows I am still here for them, but that maybe it is just to sit with them in silence, or give them some home made soup, or a hug if that is what their bodies seem to be signaling to me.

I am no longer throwing on my cape and dashing to rescue every loved one anymore. They need to learn their own lessons, after all- we all do, even if sometimes those lessons leave scars.

I am relying on my instincts and my body more then I ever did in my past.

I am not holding on to toxic partners, for fear of being alone, because I have come to realize that I actually love my own company and look forward to whole days where I can do what I want, eat what and when I want, and do what feels perfectly right for me.

It felt a bit selfish in the beginning, but now it is feeling mighty fine.

I am also letting go of material things I have hauled around with me from home to home for years. Holding onto items that mean nothing to me anymore. Downsizing, is what they call it, I guess.

I am also downsizing on resentments, anger, bitterness, grief, and unrealistic expectations of how others should treat me. It’s up to me to set those boundaries and rules.

I want to minimize on the material and maximize on the experiences and the moments.

I recently was in Mexico with my sons for my bonus daughter’s wedding.( Ain’t no steps in THIS house except the ones leading up the stairs!) As many my age have experienced, getting all the “kids” together in one place once they have grown up and moved on is a feat in itself.

Well, I had them all close by for a whole 8 days and it was a series of the absolute best moments of my entire life.

Most of the wedding attendees were younger than me, with the exception of the groom’s Mother. And yet- it seemed my hotel door was constantly swinging open and shut with the arrival of one of them or the other.

They came to sit with me and watch the sunrises and we all came together at the end of those long, hot days to watch the sunsets together at the ocean.

They popped in to invite me for dinner with their families, in the event I was dining alone.

The one family had a little one that I would just take by the hand and walk slowly with through the glorious landscaping and along the beach. Or just sit with…play with his baby-fine hair as it blew softly across his cheek from the ocean breeze.

I sat the morning of the wedding on my patio, watching the sun rise and closed my eyes and said a prayer for the first time in many years.

I thanked God/Creator/Buddha/Mohammed- all of them.

Thanked them for the beauty and the warmth and the opportunity to watch my strong, healthy, handsome sons playing in the ocean and laughing- oh my GOD, so much laughter!

Asked that they bless the marriage we were about to witness later that day, and keep that young love alive for the rest of their lives.

I took a straw hat of my mother’s and a bandana that my brother wore so often you could see through it. Packed them in my suitcase on a whim.

My brother’s bandana is tied around a little palm tree trunk- a thin little trunk that must indicate it has years of growing and stretching to the sun before it.

My mother’s straw hat I filled with all the pesos I had left in my purse, some chocolates, as well as the boldest and most fragrant of the beautiful tropical flowers that made up my corsage.

And a note, (that I likely incurred $20 in internet charges for) in order to write it in Spanish for my housekeepers that week. I thanked them for their graciousness and their hard work.

That is my balance- the holding on and cherishing of the moments that matter, but also at the same time, letting go of that which I no longer need to carry with me.

I see my Mother in the mirror every morning when I make my 6 AM visit to the facilities. Not to be confused with my 2AM or 4AM visits, as I make THOSE in the dark.

Obviously.

It’s something in the eyes, the way the green has faded a bit over the years.

The sagging of the skin underneath first thing in the morning- “face squished in pillow all night face”. I’ve read all the helpful articles about satin pillows and anti-aging sleep exercises, but quite frankly, I usually snort in derision, and just be happy I am sleeping more than 4 hours at a time. I also marvel at those folks that have time to worry about things of that nature.

I see the jowls drooping ever more downward- Thanks Dad! I once complained about them and genetics in general, and my youngest told me he thought they were cute and reminded him of this little doggo from his youth.

I’m eternally grateful that my lack of collagen brings back happy memories for my son, and think droopy dog IS one of the cuter cartoon characters, so all good!!

I have been grinding my teeth in my sleep for the last 10 years or so, and it shows in my smile. I have lost 2 teeth from it in the last year and a half, so very expensive dental work is in my future. It hasn’t stopped me from smiling or spontaneously laughing with a wide open mouth, though, so it is workable. If someone notices those missing clackers- so be it. I am not going to stop smiling or laughing to make them feel more comfortable with the fact there are teeth missing in my own damn mouth.

I must tell you what I DO have; fantastic hair. I really do. It is my crowing glory.

The participation ribbon I was handed for hanging in (and on) through all of it.

Looking back as an adult, I can’t help but marvel at his deep pool of patience with all children. He was a steady, stable constant in my childhood, and then due to my own father’s death before I was 20, he stepped in and stepped up as a father figure when he sensed I needed him.

He was never demonstrative with his affection or advice. He just let me know with a smile or look that he was there. He knew he couldn’t and most certainly would never even try to replace my Dad, but he was such an honorable and loyal soul. He had a genuine affection for my father, so there that there was a natural shifting of sorts in our relationship following my Dad’s passing.

He gave me away at my wedding and our time spent together alone that day before heading to the church is one of my most precious memories.

In the ensuing years, he moved closer to where I lived, and there were many more opportunities to spend time with him. More time to sit and listen to the things he had to say and also, more importantly, to those he didn’t say out loud. Time to learn by observing how he managed difficult people and difficult situations.

What he thought about the world and the messy people in it. His reaction to crazy situations and people contributing to the craziness was a slight shaking of his head, with a quiet grunt and a big smile.

His views on what made a person “good” and what made them less than. He was the first person in my life that explained to me that humans are fallible beings. No one wants to act badly; situations and life cause that to occur.

The best compliment I ever received in my life was from him. He told me out of the blue one time that what he loved most about me was that I wasn’t judgmental and he told his daughter and me that we had open loving heart for others.

When I think about that day, I wonder if I was, in fact, judging someone or complaining about someone to him. We were together at his place with my cousin, his daughter. It seems a strange way to start a conversation like that with the 2 of us. I wonder if we weren’t venting to him (likely about our mothers). But it isn’t about the compliment or even what we were discussing leading up to that moment of the compliments getting thrown at us out of the blue.

What I am trying to recollect and share, is what and how he chose to teach us both that day. His way of counselling was to point out a positive within us. By pointing that out, whether it was true or not, he made me strive to live those characteristics and show them moving forward in my life.

His was a heart you wanted to make full of love for you and your love and everything you held dear was so very, very safe with him.

His children were his world, and when he lost his daughter, that beautiful heart of his was working hard to deal with the hole left behind and stepping up to spill all of what he had left into her son, whom he held so close and loved so dearly.

My uncle died a year following his daughter’s passing and the only comfort I ever got from that was the thought of them together again somewhere. Because he lived far away from me when he died, it has been easier for me to just think of him as “away”.

He will always be with me, especially when I hear certain music and memories flood in of him playing DJ, mixing his tapes, a beer close by.

Nodding his head with his eyes closed, smiling that amazing smile of his. “Niece- check THIS out!”

And that laugh.

Thank you for everything, Uncle.

]]>https://griefsite.wordpress.com/2018/01/12/my-uncle-george/feed/3shannontinaJack of All Tradeshttps://griefsite.wordpress.com/2017/06/07/jack-of-all-trades/
https://griefsite.wordpress.com/2017/06/07/jack-of-all-trades/#commentsWed, 07 Jun 2017 20:48:09 +0000http://griefsite.wordpress.com/?p=2358Continue reading →]]>Following my accident, while being transported by ambulance, the paramedic asked me who they could call to inform them about my situation. Even in the depths of my pain, I knew I could not give them my Mother’s number. She could not have survived a long distance phone call like that.

My older son was at my home, but there was no way I was going to allow him to get a call from a stranger telling him that his mother had been in a horrible accident and struck by a freight train. I couldn’t bear the thought of his 13 year old psyche taking that kind of hit.

So, I gave them my brother’s number. He was tough, and while I knew he was irresponsible in numerous ways, I also knew he knew better than to just call my mother on the phone and drop that kind of news on her. He lived in the same city as her, so could, at the least, drive to her house and inform her in person, which he did.

Unbeknownst to me until months later, at the exact time I was beginning my trip to the hospital, my brother and my son were chatting to each other online.

When my brother got the call from the RCMP, he hung up the phone and then chose to relay the information to my son that his mom had been in a horrific car accident. Hit by a train. Not likely to survive. Then closed the chat by adding that he needed to go tell Nan about it in person, cus she couldn’t handle that sort of news over the phone.

My son then apparently jumped on his bike and flew over to his father’s house, three blocks away. As he was turning into the cul de sac , he spotted his dad pulling out of the driveway with his 11 year old brother in the passenger seat.

He jumped off his bike while it was still in motion ( remember having that skill as a kid?) and screamed at his dad to stop.

This 13 year old child (man), then had the emotional maturity to tell his little brother to go in the house as he had something important to tell his dad.

I can’t tell you with absolute certainty what my ex husband felt in that moment, but I can guess, based on the look on his face when I woke up in the trauma room and saw him looking down at me.

“If she dies, I’m going to have to raise these boys on my own.”

“I can’t believe she did this to me.”

” I wonder if she was still paying the life insurance policy?”

“I hope I’m not on the hook for a funeral-we were separated. For all I know, she’s seeing someone else already!”

He looked scared shit-less, for lack of more flowery prose. Absolutely terrified.

And seeing his face like that gave me the strength and will to fight through the pain and continue living.

Because I knew he was at the core a very unemotional and intellectually barren man. I had been married to him long enough to know all the reasons why.

In the beginning, he told me all of his sad stories of his childhood.

I shared not much at all, to be honest. There simply wasn’t enough room within our relationship for anyone else’s pain but his, and I was OK with that. I was already such a skilled enabler and codependent that I was the perfect girl for him.

The time was never right to open up to him, and I quickly learned to watch his expressions and those big blues, for signs of boredom or distaste.

He was and is an incredibly selfish man.

A man who keeps an internal list of who owes him and who he has helped in the past. For someone with that kind of memory of wrongs perpetuated, he has no side of the ledger where his trespasses against others are tallied.

He is the judge and jury of everyone he has ever met or interacted with his entire life.

He once wrote off his favourite nephew for borrowing $ 400.00 for a hungry wife and babies and not paying it back. It didn’t cause him to go hungry, or take on extra hours at work, or even cut down on his daily 6-pack, but it ate him to the core.

To the core.

Any time that particular nephew is brought up in conversation by someone, he just has to share that story with everyone, and I find THAT more distasteful than the act of not paying someone back that you borrow money from.

I have a PhD from the esteemed schools of Shit Happens and Hard Knocks.

I get how you can start a day with great intentions and end it with the covers over your head and shaking inside at how much shit has flown down the hill your way and knowing you won’t have the strength to deal with any of it until the next day.

My ex husband, father of my children, has always been such a dichotomy to me.

I began seeing him shortly after my father died suddenly. He was 27 and I was 17.

He was big and strong and loud and fierce in appearance. He had the bluest eyes I had ever seen in my life.

He liked to drink and he liked to fight. He had boxed for years semi-professionally and missed all that action, I guess.

What he saw in me, I really don’t know, and he wasn’t the sort you asked silly questions like that to.

I asked him once about 10 years into our marriage if he loved me. It was while we were laying in bed together in the dark, waiting for sleep to take us, and I spontaneously asked him.

His response was a loud sigh of displeasure and then he said ” That’s a stupid question. I’m here, aren’t I?”

I never asked again.

Another time, after watching a segment on the Oprah show, I closed my eyes and asked him what colour they were. We had been married about ten years by then, and he guessed wrong.

He also shared with me that he has read 2 books in his entire lifetime and both times, they were mandatory assignments in school.

Oh- and he doesn’t really like music.

I tell these anecdotes not to disparage him, but rather to give the most precise examples I can recall from our relationship in order to best describe him to someone who has never met him.

I truly believe that my children are the reason I survived that accident but I must give Jack his due, as well.

There was no fucking way I was leaving those two amazing, intelligent, loving boys in his solo care…ever.

I knew he would damage them in ways they would never recover from. Not from anything intentionally done, but by his negligence and lack of ability or sense.

He would forget them, or their needs, or give to himself first, as he always had.

They would receive the scraps and there was no way I could allow that to happen to them.

They would have figuratively been like two small trees drying out and bending until they snapped from lack of water and the nutrients they required in order to continue to grow and thrive.

Their roots would be weak and rotting from the inside.

They would never survive strong winds or sunless days.

They needed me to provide for them in those ways, and I believe the fates knew that and allowed me to survive for that reason.

While they were fixing all my broken pieces in the trauma OR following my accident, my sons were in a quiet room (rooms in hospitals where they hide people who are likely going to receive bad news and they can smother the sights and sounds of grieving) with Jack and another family member, and my older son shared with me years later that his father kept muttering , ” she won’t survive this, she’s a goner, it’s just too much damage.”

Apparently to the point where my son snapped and screamed at his father that I would, in fact, survive. He pleaded with his father to stop saying those things he knew were not the truth.

As I was being put back together in a state of nothingness, that little sapling of mine was railing against strong wind, rain, lightning, locusts and the mighty oak, Jack!